


The habit of your words

by depraved_trash



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Minor Injuries, Not Really Character Death, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depraved_trash/pseuds/depraved_trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the BLU Spy has him trapped, the RED Scout expects a quick death. What he gets is much worse. Will he ever recover from this? More pairings to be added as the story develops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "I thought I was so tough,  
> But gentled at your hands,  
> Cannot be quick enough  
> To fly for you and show  
> That when I go I go  
> At your commands."  
> \-- from Tamer and Hawk, by Thom Gunn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This fic contains graphic descriptions of sexual assault. Please do not read this if you believe it might be distressing to you. If you're affected by any of the issues mentioned in this story, I would urge you to contact RAINN, or the equivalent service for your area.

Scout's heart is pounding.

For a few moments, time seems to slow, and it feels as if the Soldier's rocket is almost on his heels. One false step, one missed moment, and this shell would send him straight back to Resupply with a fresh pair of legs. But Scout isn't quite ready to go back yet.

Half a breath more, and then the rocket makes contact with the ground. The beginning of an explosion blossoms. Instantly, the RED Scout hurls himself sideways through the window, knees high, head tucked into his chest, shards of glass lightly shredding his exposed arms and the hand he has raised to protect his face. As he flings himself into a concealed corner, the blast rattles the thin wooden slats of the cabin, and the acrid smell of smoke taints the air. "Got 'im," calls the BLU soldier from outside, and Scout smirks despite the pain.

The Soldier's footsteps recede once more into an indistinguishable background of gunfire and death, and as soon as he feels it's safe to move, the Scout scrambles toward the emergency medkit in the opposite corner, his bruised and lacerated body protesting only slightly to his haste.

Preoccupied by the task of patching himself up, he does not notice the BLU Spy uncloaking behind him.

Something slams into his hand. It doesn't hurt at first, so when Scout looks up to see his left hand pinned to the wall by Spy's knife, his first reaction is confusion. His second reaction is to shout "FUUUUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!" and reflexively try to tug his hand away, but pain and panic render his attempts useless.

In desperation, he tries to snatch at the dagger's hilt with the other hand, but the Spy is too quick. Scout feels a strong hand on his wrist, pulling his arm into a lock behind his back as the man looms over him. His body sags with defeat.

"Shit," he whispers, mentally bracing himself for kill. His eyes squeeze shut-

Nothing happens.

Gradually, the boy becomes aware of the scent of tobacco on the air, and the Spy's quiet, smirking laughter. Anger bubbles up within him.

"What the fuck, man?" he snaps, still tense in anticipation of the coming strike. "Just kill me already and get it over with."

"Stupid boy," purrs the Spy, and the Scout suddenly feels the man's weight press down on him. "I did not come here to kill you."

A lithe hand snakes up over his throat, and suddenly the Spy is gripping the boy by the chin, thrusting his head painfully upwards, the smooth flesh of his neck pulled taut. The voice is close to his ear, breath warm on the Scout's cheek.

"I came to send a message," he whispers.

In all his pain and confusion, Scout does not fully realize the man's intentions until that free hand grabs at the waistband of his pants and roughly begins to pull.

"What? No!" Suddenly he's in the grip of panic again, and struggling against the press of the Spy's body like a trapped animal. Fuck knows he'd chew off his own wrist if he could, but he can't get his pinned hand to budge, and the nerves are starting to feel weird and he's becoming weak with blood loss and disbelief and _fuck oh fuck this can't be happening..._

There's a tearing sound as the fabric of his shorts gives way, and suddenly, the Scout is humiliatingly exposed to the open air, the ruined material gathered at his knees and serving only to trap him further. It's all happening too fast. He thinks of crying out, but the scream catches in his throat at the thought of someone else seeing him like this--now he's not even scared of dying, now all he can think of is the coming violation.

Abruptly, something hard and spit-slick pushes into him, and the pain is worse than he'd imagined. The Scout cries out and renews his struggles, attempting to force the Spy off him. There is another quiet, infuriating laugh, and then the Spy grabs the side of his hip, tight as a vice.

"Squirm all you like; you are not getting away from this." Another push, another burst of blinding pain, and to his shame, Scout feels tears well up in his eyes.

"Get off me!" he chokes. "Fucking fag-ass son of a bitch!" His curses degenerate into another incoherent yell of pain, and when the Spy speaks again, his voice is heavy with arousal.

"Sticks and stones, _mon cheri_."

Scout feels sick. Tears hit the concrete floor as the Spy moves deeper inside him. He can't help it now; it is as if some barrier has broken within his heart, and as the man begins to thrust in and out of his bruised opening, he hangs his head and weeps.


	2. Chapter 2

Try as he might, he cannot block it out.

Spy's hard grip on his wrist, the other hand roving under the boy's shirt, lust and cruelty in every ragged breath, and that humiliating, unthinkable pain. He never imagined that anyone would use him in this way, that anyone could break him so thoroughly in just a few minutes, though it feels to the Scout as if the violation has been going on for years. 

" _Mon dieu_ , you feel so good," the man whispers. Scout chokes on tears and lowers his head, forehead touching the ground as if in surrender or prayer. To his shame, he finds himself begging. 

"Please, man, just finish already. Please." 

The Spy taunts him between breaths, his palm now slick with sweat on the younger man's stomach. 

"Ah, _cheri_ , you cannot be in such a hurry. Tell me, is this how you would like _him _to touch you?" His thumb caresses the pale underside of Scout's wrist. "I've seen the way you look at that Sniper, the way you flirt with him when you think nobody is watching."__

The hand on his stomach slides downwards, teasing at sensitive flesh. The Scout's body has gone cold with the agony, his consciousness shrinking to the sound of that mocking voice, the unbearable burning inside him, and the words that follow drive a blade deep into what is left of his dignity. 

"Perhaps this would be easier if you imagined I was him, _non_?" 

"Shut up," he sobs, teeth gritted. He doesn't want to think about Sniper now, not when _this _is happening. It's bad enough that he should be tainted by the Spy's hands--and it feels now as if there is no part of his being that man has not touched--but to have his innermost thoughts laid bare in the depths of his humiliation...__

In a moment of cold clarity, Scout decides that when this is over, he's going to shoot himself in the head. Maybe more than once. For the first time in his existence, he begins to question the merits of being brought back to life. 

The Spy's breathing deepens. A low moan, one last excruciating thrust, and then his hips come to a standstill as he spills himself deep inside. The Scout feels him come. Tears of relief and despair spill over his cheeks, and he barely reacts when the man puts out his cigarette on the bare nape of his neck. 

There is a sudden, rapid firing, like a brace of crossbow bolts, but it takes Scout a moment to register that anything has happened, and by this time the Spy is already crumpling to the side, his semen still drying on the back of the young man's thighs. 

His arm now freed from the other's grip, the Scout turns his head to see the Spy's lifeless body, two syringes sticking out of the side of his head. A hand reaches across him to grab the hilt of the dagger and snatch it out from where it has pinned his palm to the wall. Blood spurts from the wound only for a moment before the medigun seals it shut. 

The Scout collapses onto his side, all the strength gone from his body. All he really wants to do is tell the Medic to fuck off so he can shoot himself, but for some reason he can't stop crying. In silence, the doctor sits down beside him, his gaze averted, and starts to shrug off his backpack. Scout doesn't realise what's going on until he feels the Medic's lab coat being draped over him, covering what his own ruined clothes could not. 

"Stay still," says the older man, without emotion. "This will only take a moment." 

The Scout drags his voice back from the depths. "Don't waste your time, doc. Just pass me my shotgun." 

There is silence for a second. "Are you sure?" 

"Just... Please. I'm..." He can't seem to find the words. "I don't want to go back like this." 

"If that is what you want," the doctor replies gravely. Then; "Here." Before the Scout knows what's going on, he feels the Medic shift closer, scooping an arm around him and pulling him close so his head is against the older man's shoulder. The gesture is almost protective. The Scout wants to protest against the contact, but it feels oddly comforting, and when the doctor reaches for the gun he feels as if he could start crying all over again with relief. 

"This will be over very soon," the Medic says gently. Scout feels the cold touch of the barrel behind his ear for only a moment before he pulls the trigger. There is a loud bang, an instant of pain, and then, nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

The relief of finding himself alive and whole again in Resupply is short-lived. Though the physical pain is gone, his body feels... different, somehow, as if it is no longer his own, and the ghost of the Spy's touch still lingers on his skin. It doesn't seem right that this room should be so white, that his clothes should be so clean. There is nothing clean about him now.

“Fuck it,” Scout mutters, rage clawing up from inside him again. He knows he should get back out there, but he can't bring himself to care at the moment, and he doesn't want to have to face the Medic after what he saw—or risk running into the BLU spy again.

Scout starts to feel strangely unreal, his head vacillating wildly between anger and shame and a sick kind of emptiness. The world spins for a second. On impulse, the boy punches the door of his locker. Then his knees go weak and he has to lean against the wall to steady himself, sweat gathering on his forehead.

 _Everyone's going to know_ , he thinks suddenly. Medic will tell someone. Or—they'll smell it on him, somehow, like some kind of wounded fucking animal. Everyone's going to know.

“Fuck!” he screams suddenly, driving his fist once more into the thin metal, and his face burns with the humiliation of new tears.

Barely aware of what he's doing, he grabs a towel and heads for the communal showers, knowing they would be empty at this time of the day. First, get clean, he thinks. He'll worry about everything else later. But when he gets there, the thought of actually undressing makes vomit rise up in the back of his throat, and what if the BLU spy has somehow followed him back, and is just waiting there for him to make himself vulnerable again so—so he can—

Scout grabs the shower faucet and turns it violently, then slumps down against the tiles and flings his cap across the room, not even caring that the water cascading over his head is freezing cold.

When the Medic finally returns to the base, first back in after a finished mission, the Scout is still sitting there—fully clothed, soaked from head to foot, his echoing sobs almost loud enough to drown out the water's roar.

 

“I'm giving you a sedative. And you're sleeping here tonight.”

“Like hell, old man. I'm not a kid.” The metallic survival blanket over his shoulders isn't doing much to dry him, but at least it's warm. Scout pointedly ignores the small pile of towels on the gurney beside him, although he's not sure why. Possibly something to do with acknowledging the fact that the Medic had to literally carry him back to the infirmary because his legs wouldn't hold him up. The dampness is still visible on the medic's lab coat.

“ _Nein_ , but I must insist. Any more long showers and I'll be treating you for hypothermia.” (Scout sniffs and rubs his nose dejectedly, devoid of the will to protest.) “You are already showing the early signs of an upper respiratory infection.”

“I'm fucking what?!” Scout almost jumps to his feet, eyes wide. Did that bastard... give him something? His stomach turns to ice.

“A cold, you dummkopf.” The Medic stands and rolls up his sleeve. The boy is too relieved to notice the syringe in his hand until the doctor literally stabs it into his upper arm.

“Ow!”

“This should hold you until tomorrow morning. Go and get your toothbrush and your sleeping clothes. If you're not back in twenty minutes I send Heavy to fetch you, _alles klar_?”

“Yeah, yeah. Quit whining, you freaking Nazi.” Scout slides off the gurney, trying to disguise the fact that his knees still feel unsteady. At least hurling insults at the Medic makes him feel a little closer to normal.

 

He breaks into a jog outside, taking the long route to the dorms so he doesn't have to talk to anyone. He almost believes he's managed to get away with it until he rounds the door to the sleeping quarters and finds the Sniper disassembling his rifle on the bed next to his. “Evening kiddo,” the man says, without looking up.

“ _Perhaps this would be easier if you imagined I was him, non?”_

A deep, tearing pain. The scent of tobacco on his skin. The memory hits him like a bullet, and Scout's face burns with shame. He grabs his bag and turns to leave.

“Didn't see you out there much today,” the man offers casually. “Out collecting heads on the front lines, or something?”

“Get lost,” the boy spits before he can help himself. He hears the Sniper pause momentarily in his work.

“Christ, what crawled up your arse and died? I'm just making polite conversation, mate.” But before he's even finished speaking, the Scout has already slammed the door behind him and is tearing his way down the corridor as if he can somehow outrun his own tears.

 


End file.
